This is the caption below the gleaming white bowl of Skittles with the Trump/Pence logo: “If I had a bowl of skittles and I told you just three would kill you. Would you take a handful? That’s our Syrian refugee problem.”

Hmm. White bowl, colored Skittles. This could also be seen as racist, could it not? Like the white ruling class holding the non-white people in a bowl (earth?) and controlling them. Alas, I do digress.

The white color could symbolize purity and innocence and the candies inside, the unknown or the impure? Perhaps it is a cautionary tale for trick-or-treaters. After all, Halloween is fast upon us. Should we withhold mini bags of Skittles gathered by our jubilant children at All Hallows’ Eve, for fear they may be in possession of a tainted one? So many questions.

I didn’t understand the point of the term “biznatch” for quite some time, but it all made sense after seeing this episode of Better Call Saul featuring the inimitable Tuco Salamanca as portrayed by actor Raymond Cruz. One of the most memorable TV characters ever.

The term “punking” was also etched (perhaps “blasted” would be more appropriate) into my memory by Tuco.

For the times we are disrespected, deceived or betrayed, wouldn’t it be great to channel Tuco for a day or even a few hours and scare the living crap out of the those who diss us to our very core? I can think of someone right now I’d like to “go Tuco” on. I recently discovered a certain person has been misleading and lying to me and my husband for years and has taken us for a quite a ride. I cannot go into any further detail here, but suffice it to say, it has been a rude awakening, albeit a necessary one.

The beauty, the pageantry, the test of human endurance and achieving athletic triumphs heretofore unknown: the Olympic Games. The glory of the human body and spirit. What could be wrong with that?

Location, location, location.

Why Rio? One in seven Rio denizens lives in cinderblock shacks or “favelas” stacked on top of one another. Violence and street gangs run rampant.

Rio’s governor declared a “state of calamity” last month because the administration had run out of funds for public security and healthcare. Part of this was due to spending on the Olympic Games. Contracts for stadiums, transportation and port renovations have added to the already enormous wealth of Brazil’s elite families and their companies.

One of the most expensive Olympic projects is the $3 billion subway extension linking the wealthy suburb of Barra de Tijuca to the tony beach neighborhoods Leblon and Ipanema. 92-year-old billionaire Carlos Caravalho is one of the men who owns most of Barra’s land. Once the games come to a close, all 31 of the Olympic Village’s 17-story towers will be converted into luxury condos.

In an interview with The Guardian last year, he [Carvalho] spoke of his dream to turn Barra into “a city of the elite, of good taste.” This is why he dubbed the Athletes’ Village development Ilha Pura, or pure island. “It needed to be noble housing,” Carvalho said, “not housing for the poor.” (The Atlantic, “The Broken Promise of the Rio Olympics,” Alex Cuadros, Aug. 1, 2016)

So pure does not equal poor.

Mayor Eduardo Paes, an Olympics enthusiast, belongs to the Brazilian Democratic Movement Party, representing the old establishment. He is the son of a highly respected attorney and a member of Rio’s elite.

Paes admitted in an interview that the Olympics were used as an excuse to complete unrelated projects and that his goal is to make Barra the new hub of international business.

Nothing wrong with growing business, but it seems that average citizens were once again deceived. They were told the Olympics would benefit all of Rio, but this is indeed not the case. One could say the same thing if the homeless of New York City were told that Olympic Games held in the Big Apple would improve their quality of life. They might also be “relocated” or have their makeshift cardboard homes destroyed.

My intention is not to rain on anyone’s Olympic parade, but simply to shed some light on a perhaps not-so-well kept secret. The elites strike again!

Apparently they are a viral sensation, but today is the first day I’m hearing about them. Yes, I mean the USA Freedom Kids! The number they performed at a Trump rally in Pensacola, FL reminds me a bit of Olive’s act in the film Little Miss Sunshine. The back beat sounds like a techno / diluted version of Blondie’s “Heart of Glass.” Their song entitled “Freedom’s Call” is a re-write of the popular World War I and II tune “Over There.”

The founder / manager of the group is Jeff Popick, father of Alexis, the youngest girl in the group. He is planning to sue the Trump campaign for violating their business agreement. They were promised two performances in Pensacola, but the first performance did not transpire. When Popick asked for the $2,500 promised for their one and only performance, a counter offer was proposed to give them a table for pre-selling CDs. No table was set up for them, and they still have not been paid for the performance (January 2016). Boo, Trump!

Trump’s campaign manager also invited the Freedom Kids to perform at a rally in Des Moines which would have brought them huge publicity, but when they arrived, they were told there was a change of plan. They made the trip for nothing and were not compensated for any hotel or travel expenses.

. . . Popick’s story mirrors analysis of Trump’s record in working with small business owners, some of whom allege that the Republican nominee failed to live up to financial and other commitments he’d made to them.

So much for Trump’s proclamation to regular folks: “I am your voice.” I beg to differ.

As an ardent Bernie Sanders supporter, I must take umbrage at the call for Bernie to somehow coerce his supporters into vowing allegiance to Camp Hillary. I am not saying that I will not vote for Hillary in November, but I am not a fan.

An article in today’s New York Times is entitled “Sanders Faces Task of Putting Down Revolt He Started.” Why is it his duty to quell the so-called “revolt”? Why should he abandon his beliefs and what he has fought for his entire life and during his campaign simply to kowtow to the DNC? Especially after leaked emails revealed how they tried to destroy his campaign and credibility. At the very least, the DNC should apologize to Bernie and the American people for trying to undermine his hard-fought run and malign his faith.

I didn’t have the heart to listen to his speech last night, although I did listen to Michelle Obama. Her words were heartfelt and stirring. She is a marvelous woman whom I greatly admire. But her speech still didn’t move me to start lapping up the Hillary Kool-aid.

I read Michael Moore’s “Five Reasons Why Trump Will Win.” As much as many of us don’t want to believe it, he may very well be right. As he noted, we cannot blame disaffected or as he calls them, “depressed,” Sanders supporters if Trump does win. However, I do believe most Bernie supporters will come out in support of Hillary in November.

I digress.

What I mainly wanted to convey is that Bernie Sanders should not be blamed if Trump wins or if his supporters cannot find it in their hearts or heads to vote Clinton. Some may say, well, he’s just a socialist turned Democrat for political gain. What choice did he have? And once he came on board, the least they could have done is treat him with respect, instead of like the bastard step-child.

I guess that’s all I have to say. I am feeling a lot of anger and sadness about the current state of affairs, and am trying to get past it and move forward.

All that you really need to know about last night is that Melania wore a beautiful dress by London-based Serbian designer Roksanda Ilinic that cost $2,190. It sold out minutes after she gave her campaign speech at the Republican National Convention. Way to go, Melania! Get Americans shopping again so the terrorists don’t win. Let’s not talk about her speech, that may have been plagiarized, echoing passages from Michelle Obama’s speech before the DNC in 2008. Fashion trumps substance!

Speaking of fashion and substance, did you catch former Calvin Klein underwear model and soap opera actor Antonio Sabato Jr.’s speech? He moved from Rome to the U.S. in 1985 and became a naturalized citizen in 2006. He believes that Obama is a Muslim and told ABC News that Obama is “with the bad guys.” At least he looks good in underwear.

(google image)

I’ll admit to only having watched Antonio Sabato Jr. (kept hoping he would strip down to those undershorts) and the guy who came after him who was rather dour. Last night’s theme was “Make America Safe Again”–neither as catchy nor as bold as “Make America Great Again.” I wonder what tonight’s theme / motto will be.

I missed out on purchasing Melania’s dress like so many other women had the fortune to do. To be truthful, it’s more than I can afford to pay for a dress. Not sure I’d ever spend that much on a dress, but never say never. Isn’t it more important that we have the privilege to emulate celebrities, models (including underwear models) and those above our station, and imagine ourselves as rich and glamorous as they are? Ah, we can dream. Can’t we?

Christmas Tree Shops is/are one of my favorite stores. I haven’t figured out if the store name is considered singular–as it would be for a collective noun like “family” or plural since “Shops” is plural. Any guesses? For now, I’m going to assume it is plural.

Christmas Tree Shops’ (“CTS”) parent company is Bed, Bath & Beyond. Although the former has a better selection of products than CTS, I tend to prefer CTS for the prices–much cheaper. That being said, a co-worker informed me yesterday that there was a Bed, Bath Beyond / Barnes & Noble / Whole Foods store complex (not exactly a mall) near our new office space on Vesey Street, so I had to venture forth. I knew it was raining, but I wasn’t expecting the blustering winds, spray and cold. It didn’t feel like early June. I was wearing a jean jacket over my blouse and had my mini urban umbrella, which wasn’t cutting it.

I was on a mission to continue looking for small items to spruce up our home. We are in the process of doing a short sale and our realtor’s photographer is expected at our house early next week; after the photos are done, our house will be listed. Last weekend I got coasters, a throw pillow, a couple candles and a glass jar with beach glass (or at the least the package said it was) in the shape of fish at CTS. Having done more online research about pre-sale home staging, I decided I needed more throw pillows for the master bedroom, a bowl of balls like they have in corporate apartments (see Better Call Saul episode 6, season 2, “Bali Ha’i”) or fake fruit for the dining room table, and other sundries.

The Bed, Bath & Beyond on Greenwich Street was smaller than the one I normally go to in Paramus, NJ, claustrophobic, even. No ball of balls to be found and the throw pillows I liked were all around $34.99 (too expensive for a short sale). I ended up with two plush gray-blue bath towels and a hand towel–both on sale.

Determined to find that bowl of balls or anything else, I kept repeating the circuit: around and around, from BATH section to BRIDAL section to BEDDING section with overpriced DK sheets and pillow shams to KITCHEN section to SCENT section to OUTDOOR DINING section and over and over. I couldn’t stop, as if possessed. Then I started to feel dizzy. I looked at my watch: 1:35, still 25 minutes to get back to work, and the walk was 10 minutes. Around and around I went. I was lightheaded, and my hands were shaking, and I desperately wanted to find the cashier but he/she was not in sight. Oh my God, what’s going on, I thought. Trapped in Bed, Bath and Beyond! Now I knew what the “Beyond” was for.

Finally I saw an “EXIT’ sign, which I assumed would lead to the cashier. At last, a kindly cashier beckoned me. He was smiling, which helped a great deal, as I was trapped inside the maws of a full-blown panic attack. I smiled at him, or at least I thought I was smiling. Perhaps I looked manic or even insane. I didn’t know. All I knew is that I wanted to purchase the murky blue towels and get the hell out of there.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” he asked, cheerfully.

“Well, I was looking for a bowl for the dining room or living room, and I couldn’t find it.” I was hoping this made sense.

“Oh, you mean to use as a centerpiece?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, we don’t have many of those; this store is smaller than most of them.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. I wondered if I had missed something.”

I inserted my chip card, my eyes not focusing well.

I thanked him and left.

I found it difficult to put one foot in front of the other; my hands were still shaking. I was pulling in enormous gulps of air, audibly. It felt weird.

On the downward escalator, I scanned for seating downstairs, but there was none. I took a mild sedative, and faced the tempest.

It was colder and more blustery than before, or so it felt.

My knees felt like blocks of steel; my feet were partially numb. When I entered Brookfield Place, I plopped my soggy corpus onto one of the uncomfortable benches, vaguely watching shoppers popping in and out of J. Crew and the other chi-chi stores. It was 1:50 p.m.

After a few minutes, I dragged myself to the escalator, then took the elevator to my floor. Eating a sandwich at my desk was a gift from God. I felt like I had experienced a shock, a trauma of some kind. But it was all within myself.

Poor Ted. Not only has he been accused of being the Zodiac Killer, been called “Lucifer in the flesh” by John Boehner, and “Lyin’ Ted” by Trump, but his father Rafael has been linked to Lee Harvey Oswald. Sheesh, let’s give the guy a break!

Yesterday he dropped out of the Republican presidential race after his loss to Trump in Indiana. Not a graceful exit, either. After his concession speech, he accidentally elbowed and punched his wife in the face. Poor Heidi! She has been such a staunch defender of her husband too, asserting in a Vanity Fairexclusive that he is not the Zodiac Killer.

CNN

Well, he may not be the Zodiac Killer, and his father may not be an accomplice to Lee Harvey Oswald, but he sure needs to watch his elbows and fists. If I were you, Heidi, I would be careful NOT to stand by your man. You might end up black and blue.

It occurred to me yesterday (I know it’s all over the internet, but I honestly didn’t know till yesterday) that Paul Ryan bears a striking resemblance to Eddie Munster on the TV show, The Munsters. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as Seinfeld would say.

(google image)

Thank God he finally lost that beard. Was he going for a “kinder, gentler, smug, evil bastard” look, or was he simply too exhausted from being an obscenely overpaid “maker” and shaming the hardworking, non-elite “takers” to shave once a day? Perhaps he was going for the metrosexual look. Some conservative critics referred to his scruff disparagingly as a “Muslim beard.”

“No word yet on whether Ryan’s beard is a result of his relentless, sleep-in-the-office work ethic, or if it’s just an effort to reach out to younger voters with a newer, hipper image,” Elizabeth Bruenig of New Republicwrote.

I’m pretty sure he was told to ditch the beard before the Koch Brothers or whomever is pulling his strings started engineering his “phantom” campaign for president.

I would love to see Ryan with a “man bun,” wouldn’t you?

(google image)

As a final ode to the missing facial hair of Paul Ryan, I leave you with a poem by the late, great George Carlin: